


Quantitative Reasoning

by Driverpicksthemooseic (Ratkinzluver33)



Series: Singularity [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Case Fic, Connor's Evil Tongue, Listen Hank, M/M, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Shameless Trope Fill, Stick Your Foot In Your Goddamn Mouth Please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 08:58:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15069707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ratkinzluver33/pseuds/Driverpicksthemooseic
Summary: "Tell me you've got something," he says on the tail-end of a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Tell me you haven't completely wasted my time.""We've placed a tracker on the suspects, Captain," Connor offers.(OR, Detroit's criminal underworld still thinks Connor is a sex worker.)





	Quantitative Reasoning

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [定量推理](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15487197) by [osdom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/osdom/pseuds/osdom)
  * Translation into Tiếng Việt available: [Suy Luận Định Lượng](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15560931) by [thegirl_gcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirl_gcat/pseuds/thegirl_gcat)



> I made this into a series, by popular request. I can't stop, I won't stop, someone please help me. Many thanks to everyone over at the Hannor Discord for encouraging me, you're all enablers, and I both love and hate you. But mostly I love you.
> 
> Sorry it took so long. It's been 39-40 Celsius/102 degrees Fahrenheit pretty consistently every day here, and I'm fucking dying. Hard to write when you're actually just a melting puddle.

Fowler looks up, face weathered from a lifetime of frowning. Nowhere in Connor's many terabyte memory can he remember the Captain smiling. Truthfully, he doesn't understand why the man hasn't retired, switched careers, or moved positions. He seems to get no joy out of his work, no fulfillment or peace. "Tell me you've got something," he says on the tail-end of a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Tell me you haven't completely wasted my time."

"We've placed a tracker on the suspects, Captain," Connor offers.

Fowler briefly pauses and looks for a moment surprised. "Nice work. Why haven't you moved in on the targets?"

Connor frowns. "They haven't left the Eden Club since the tracker was planted."

"Ah, ones for a good time." Connor's not sure if the implications are exactly accurate. The men hadn't indicated they were using the rooms for anything but drug trafficking, but he ignores it. He's gotten the feeling that pointing things out, however obvious, to his superior officers only serves to heighten tensions. "Well, you have permission to dispatch at the first sign of movement." Fowler takes this moment to glare very intensely at Hank. "Even if the first sign of movement is at 2AM."

"That was one fucking time," Hank says. "Captain, sir."

"One fucking time too many." Fowler returns his focus to the screens in front of him. A quick glance shows reports of the DPD being worked to the bone on the influx of new hate crime cases, now laws instating androids as a protected class are in place. There are a few emails directly addressed to Fowler complaining that Homicide shouldn't have its resources wasted on android cases. "I don't have time for this. Call in when the suspects move. I don't want to hear anything but updates. One more word about Reed being a dick, Anderson, and I'll start handing out demerits. We all know he's a dick, but he does good work. Just like you. Now get the fuck out of my office."

Hank's eye twitches. "We all know Reed complains about Connor at every opportunity," he grouses. "Just returning the favour."

"Yes," Fowler says, very slowly. "And I don't listen to either of you. Bye now."

* * *

"Lieutenant," Connor starts, somewhat hesitant, "if you continue to exert that amount of force on your touch screen, it will break in approximately five minutes and eight point five seconds."

"Fuck," Hank replies, but he does stop hammering so hard on his keyboard. "I'm just sick of everyone questioning your ability to do your job."

"You questioned my ability to do my job," Connor says, a little confused.

"Yeah, but I was wrong, and I'm sorry for that. And now I don't." Hank rests his head in one calloused palm. "We've had a- what's our success rate?"

"Ninety-three percent."

"A ninety-three percent success rate. Let's see if Gavin can do the same, the little-"

"Fowler doesn't seem to consider any complaints legitimate," Connor tells him in a voice he hopes is reassuring. Hank is a dreadful cynic, and Connor finds reassuring him to be exceedingly difficult. "To be honest, I don't really care if Reed thinks I'm an effective member of the force, because I don't care about  _him._ Therefore, his opinion doesn't matter to me."

"Wow." Hank snorts. "Tell us how you really feel."

"I am."

"Ha fucking ha," Hank says, dryly. "Very funny, but you can't play dumb with me anymore."

"They'll eventually become tired of lodging complaints that never get listened to, Lieutenant. And if we maintain a good record, Fowler will have no reason to change his mind." Connor smiles, just a little. "Even if that does mean getting up at 2AM."

Hank throws up his hands. "It was one fucking time!"

* * *

Before he'd become Deviant, Connor had never really stayed in any one particular place; he'd gone where he was needed. Since Markus's revolution, though, Hank had-- well, he'd insisted Connor have a home. Laws about android home ownership are spotty at best, technically enforceable, but most Deviants stay at Jericho's new headquarters. After the FBI raid, Connor couldn't bring himself to linger in their space.

Hank had offered him a chance to call something his own. Connor's serial number had even been registered on the deed. He still doesn't know how precisely to describe the feeling, the warmth that had coursed through him as he'd signed. He's not sure he'll ever know.

His taste in art is as fully-formed as his taste in music, which is to say not at all, but Hank's house, for all its clutter and empty beer bottles and stray strands of dog hair, evokes more emotion in him than any classical art piece. It looks lived in, like nothing CyberLife's sleek, modernist style could ever offer, loved and worn in the way that comes with being alive, with needing things and using things. The empty pizza box Sumo's dragged over to his bed, the clothes strewn over the back of the couch, the dust in the far corners of the ceiling, they're all what makes things real. And Connor's jacket where it's hung on a doorknob, the little hedgehog squeaky toy he'd picked out for Sumo, his copies of Asimov's novels, they're all real too. He  _can_  be now.

Sumo greets them excitedly at the door, coating Connor's hands in slimy drool, tail wagging like a metronome. He yips softly and follows at their side, bumping into Hank's legs as he heads to the fridge to get something to drink. Connor gives him a scratch behind the ears.

"He barely knows you and he already loves you more than me," Hank grumbles, pulling the tab on a can of Coke. He leans down and tells Sumo, very seriously, "Traitor."

"I was designed to appear trustworthy and welcoming," Connor says.

"And I wasn't?"

"You flipped me off the first time we met." Connor smirks, slightly. "If that's what you consider a trustworthy and welcoming gesture, that does explain a lot."

"Fuck off," Hank says.

"You're just proving my point, Lieutenant."

"I can't believe you turned into a smartass." Hank flips him off again and switches on the TV. The channel flickers to life on a picture of Markus, chin resting serenely on his folded hands. He's being interviewed about his recent decision to sell his art at a fundraiser. Apparently, all proceeds go to fund Jericho and their team of lawyers. "This is what happens when you're raised with painters. You act deep and pensive and like you're carrying on the family legacy and shit sells like hotcakes."

"I don't think that's the significant factor in sales. It's probably the fact that he single-handedly kickstarted a civil liberties movement."

"They wouldn't be buying his art in droves if he didn't have a good, angsty backstory for them to sympathise with." Hank shrugs. "Nothing against him. It's good art, very depressing. I hear the critics like that kind of shit."

"Isn't human tragedy the baseline of everything meaningful? How can you appreciate what you've gained if you haven't also lost something?"

Hank stares at him. "Stop reading your fucking obscure philosophical thinkpieces before it turns you into an even more insufferable wet blanket. Go to bed, Jesus Christ."

Connor hides a smile. "Good night, Lieutenant."

* * *

Connor doesn't need to sleep, but he's capable of it. Androids frequently need to wait for long periods of time, and a sleep mode is ideal when there's nothing else to do. Or, in Hank's case, when staying awake all night is "fucking unsettling." Tonight, though, he has a case to monitor, and he's... afraid-- afraid they'll miss something critical, that others will suffer for their carelessness. He's always been dedicated to the mission at hand, but since becoming Deviant, he's had the absurd and inexplicable need to find purpose in life. His job is his literal purpose, and he hasn't yet found any figurative purpose, so he's thrown himself into his job.

That's probably not healthy, but he has no baseline for health -- or for anything -- and he finds his work satisfying. For now, it's good enough.

Hank has an erratic sleep schedule. There are nights where he can't seem to sleep, where he'll stay up with Connor complaining about whatever's on TV, and there are nights where he drops off into nothingness. No matter which, he's always exhausted. The feeling is strangely relatable. Connor is often exhausted by his own Deviancy.

The monitor beeps insistently. It's 3:18AM. Hank won't be pleased.

Connor hasn't changed out of his work clothing, partly because he knew they'd be on-call today, and partly because he has almost nothing else to wear. It's not that he doesn't get paid, because he does, it's that he doesn't know where to start. And Hank had eyed his beanie and jeans with great scepticism for reasons Connor still doesn't really understand. He has nothing to do except wake Hank, which has been an entirely intentional decision on his part. Waking Hank is, for lack of a better term, nightmarish. Or so he imagines. His dreams are all numbers and abstract calculation.

Hank is curled on his side, expression vaguely troubled. The stress of the case has no doubt been weighing on him. "Wake up," says Connor. "The suspects are moving out."

"Wh-?" Hank groans. "What fucking time is it?"

"3:18 in the morning."

Hank groans louder. "Fucking drug-dealing, amped up, lowlife pieces of- three in the goddamn morning, shit-"

"We don't have much time," Connor interrupts, gently.

"Shut up, I know that," Hank snaps. He's usually this disagreeable if he doesn't wake in his own time. " _Fuck._ "

Connor begins, "If I don't remind you-"

"What are you, my fucking wife?" Hank pauses, then grimaces. "Where's my gun?"

"In the second bedside drawer to your right, where you always leave it," Connor offers.

"Ugh," Hank tells him. "I hate that you're this prepared. It's unnatural."

"Considering I was made in a factory-"

"You know exactly what I damn well meant," Hank complains, rubbing a hand over his face. He sits up and holsters his gun. He's fallen asleep fully-dressed, which saves them a few minutes of more uttered obscenities and insults which Connor chooses to take as compliments. "Where are they?"

"Fifteen miles north, heading into a warehouse district."

"Typical." He sighs. "I'll meet you in the car."

* * *

Hank drives even more aggressively than usual, but Connor stays quiet because Hank knows the city like the back of his hand and can get them anywhere faster than the strictly-legal, strictly-by-the-book maps given to machine drivers. There aren't normally any pedestrians in storage districts, and it's earlier than the first shifts. Almost all labour jobs are automated.

"How far?"

"They've come to a stop 500 metres away, outside of a spare automotive parts warehouse."

"Great, seedy and secluded." Hank pinches the bridge of his nose. "I should've been a lawyer. Get paid to shut people down _after_  they've committed the crimes."

"You've been an exemplary officer," Connor offers sympathetically. "And you've earnt great respect in the field."

"Yeah, right," Hank says. "Let's go."

It's cold this time of night, wind sheer and icy against his artificial skin. It was snowing moderately up until an hour and fifteen minutes ago, but the road is salted and clear. Frost crawls up the windows of the buildings on each of their sides. A few stray flakes catch in his hair and melt on his cheeks. He thinks he would shiver, if that was necessary. Around other humans, he might mime it, but Hank always seems to be able to tell what is and isn't real with him. "There's a ninety-eight percent chance they're armed."

Hank's breath floats in the cold air. "Just assume they're armed in this city. No percents about it."

"Alright," Connor concedes. Previously he would have raised the point that no single thing in the universe can be predicted with one hundred percent certainty, but Hank has a tendency to be hyperbolic, and very easily annoyed. Connor is aware continuing to insist on things like these would characterise him as pedantic. Even if he is right.

The warehouse is fairly old. Records indicate it was built in 1993 and has transferred through fifteen owners since. Blueprints show it's been renovated three times. There's still a side door usable, added in 2032, so it should have an android access panel. Connor's police clearance lets him into any public property. "There's a door to our left we can use. The front door leaves us too open to fire, and I don't know about you, Lieutenant, but I don't think it would reassure Fowler if we got shot."

" _That's_ the only reason you don't want to get shot?"

"Yes. Our lives aren't in any considerable danger. They're probably habitual users. If they're under the influence, which I assume they will be, their aim is going to be significantly-"

"Shittier," Hank supplies.

"Shittier," Connor agrees.

The door is in bad shape and seems rarely used, but the scanner is functional and grants them entry regardless. It opens to a dim main room, where Connor can see the three suspects unboxing and categorising Red Ice. The man with the tattoo stands over the others, directing them gruffly. He seems jittery, impatient. Connor can't find any identifying information on them. Their names all list as John Doe.

"If we're late again, the boss will have us served for lunch tomorrow," he says. "It's a straight twenty grams per vial, pure. Sells fast. We're exceeding expectations. But it don't mean shit if we can't fucking show up."

Doe Number #2 has a strained pectoral muscle. Vitals elevated. He's stressed and in severe pain. Scar on his left eyebrow. Not a natural blonde. "I heard you the first time, you fucking psycho. Who put you in charge?"

"I put myself in charge since none of you can do your jobs right. We're supposed to be handing this out on the daily, and you useless-ass-"

"It was your dipshit idea to start selling at Eden."

"You were enthusiastic before you had to do any work," says the tattooed Doe. "Practically sucking my dick for it."

"If you two would stop whining for more than two minutes at a time we'd have better progress." John Doe #3. The tallest and fittest of the group. Calculations estimate he's working approximately four point eight times more efficiently than the other two Does. "I can't believe I got saddled with such loud-mouthed douchebags when I've been turning out nothing but top numbers."

"You cocky piece of shit, top numbers my ass, sure was top tier when you blew our last gig-"

Silently, Connor nods at Hank. It's the least risky option to move when they're already distracted.

"Detroit PD!" Hank yells, gun trained firmly at Doe 3. "You're under arrest. Drop your weapons, step away from the contraband, and put your hands where I can fucking see them!"

Connor can see Does 1 and 3 tense and reach for their weapons. Doe 2's reaction time is too slowed from the injury for him to make a proper escape. Hank will no doubt open fire on the first to make for the front exit. This gives Connor ample time to rush Doe 2 and capture him for interrogation. A swift blow to the jawbone should knock him out long enough to be cuffed. Ideally Connor wants him out for long enough to sample the blood spatter if Hank lands any hits successfully. DNA profiling may get him names beyond John Doe.

As predicted, numbers 1 and 3 get off two shaky shots before they begin a dash to the front door. Each one misses wildly, also as predicted. "Fuck, fuck, shit," he hears Hank mutter.

Hank fires at Doe 1 and hits him in the shoulder. It's a .45mm hollowpoint round, designed to incapacitate immediately, and prompts a wail that makes Connor want to wince in sympathy. He doesn't know what it is to experience true physical pain, but there's something broken in the man's voice that's somewhat upsetting. Connor has extensive knowledge of human biology, and having a flowering piece of metal embedding itself into your bones is of course excruciating. Hank shoots again and hits Doe 1 once more in the hip. Doe 3 is screaming about their employer's suspected cannibalism as he tries to drag his colleague bodily out the door. There's a thirty percent chance he's being literal.

Doe 2 is on the ground in seconds. Four successive shots have no doubt temporarily deafened him, so he doesn't hear Connor coming, and he's already weak and exhausted, easily overpowered. Connor cuffs him and binds his legs for good measure. They've already lost 2 suspects, who will clue in to their trackers as soon as they recover their bearings. If they lose another, he'll consider the mission a failure.

Failure isn't an option.

"Excellent work," Connor says, knee still on their captive's back.

Hank snorts incredulously. "They got away."

"But we have one in custody and significant blood spatter from their leader." Connor smiles. "You also had one hundred percent accuracy, despite having minimal sleep. That's very impressive."

Hank shrugs. "Shoulder's nothing. He'll walk that off."

"I find that very unlikely. Coupled with the hip wound, he'll be in too much pain to walk once the rush of adrenaline fades."

"But he'll go crying home to Daddy, get it patched up easy, go back in business, and the whole fucking cycle repeats."

"It's possible 'Daddy' may eat him," Connor offers.

Hank chokes. "Do you even listen to yourself?"

"Yes." He blinks. "I'm being serious. They indicated-"

"I know what they indicated." Hank groans and leans against a support beam. "Let's hope we don't have Hannibal goddamn Lecter running a cartel in the middle of Detroit. Press coverage would be a nightmare, and you'll come under public scrutiny. I don't need a fucking goofy Clarice Starling sending Fowler into another fit of rage."

"I think that's a very pessimistic view to take from what's, by all rights, a success." Connor frowns and rests a hand on Hank's shoulder. "I'm concerned. You know, Lieutenant, I'm here as your partner if you ever feel you need someone to talk to-"

"Oh, Jesus H. Christ, not this shit." Hank waves him off. "CyberLife fucked up so hard with you. You practically bleed feelings."

"Thank you," Connor tells him genuinely. "I appreciate that."

* * *

There's blood all over the floor, a multitude of slowly coagulating samples that Connor feels... happy about. He's still not used to quantifying how he experiences emotions and their meanings, but success usually makes him happy. Sometimes failure is reassuring, too, like the comforting and terrifying choice to spare Kamski's Chloe model. But today they're one step closer to taking down a drug ring, and Connor knows that particular subject is dear to Hank's heart. The one he likes to pretend he doesn't have. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

He bends down to take a good look at the spatter before using oral analysis. There's no obvious evidence of sulfhaemoglobinaemia, and the pool doesn't seem enough to indicate haemophilia.

From behind him, Hank coughs. "What are you doing?"

"Examining the evidence," Connor tells him.

"Is that a new suit?" Hank asks. He sounds more irresolute than usual.

"Yes. The old one was contaminated at the Eden Club," he explains. He's not sure why this information is relevant, but if Hank wants to know, he'll gladly offer. "This is my backup."

"I think it's too small." Hank coughs again. At a quick glance, his lungs appear perfectly clear.

"This is the usual size for my model." Connor dips his index and middle fingers into the pool and turns to face Hank. Some humans are uncomfortable with prolonged eye contact, but Hank is acting curiously and Connor wants a more thorough evaluation. The time remaining before Doe 2 becomes fully cognizant is minimal, so he begins sample analysis at the same time. He's capable of running hundreds of thousands of processes at once, and as the second most advanced model produced by CyberLife, and the first-most still standing, multitasking is not only recommended, but necessary.

"Fucking hell," Hank says. "Don't  _do_ that."

The analysis finishes. He sends the DNA to the DPD network for sequencing. "Do what?" Hank is slightly flushed and appears agitated.

There's excess blood around his mouth. He licks his lips. Walking around bloodied would raise too much suspicion.

" _That!_ " Hank snaps. "Sucking your fingers- first it was the damned licking- Jesus, you couldn't just analyse things with your hands like a normal fucking person?"

"I'm aware you find the process disgusting, but my oral sensors are the most effective I have, and we can't afford to waste any time on this case." Connor blinks. "Do you need medical assistance, Lieutenant? You seem unwell."

"No," Hank groans. "I just can't handle your level of strange."

Connor is trying and failing to categorise Hank's actions when their captive awakens. "What the hell?" Saliva and blood drips onto the floor, where he's curled in the foetal position. "Is that the fucking hooker bot?"

"I'm Connor, the android assigned to your case. This is Lieutenant Anderson, my partner."

"I got that you were partners when I saw you on his lap." The Doe sneers. It twists his whole face and resplits his lip. "They let glorified sex toys on the force now? No wonder this city's so fucked."

"Undercover, dipshit," Hank says. "They let morons like you into organised crime now? No wonder this city's so fucked."

"Can you walk?" Connor asks. "We need to bring you back to the station for questioning."

"Fuck off," the Doe spits. "Go ride grandpa's cock like you're supposed to. I ain't telling you shit."

"Cute." Hank's eyes narrow. "This one's going to be a pain in the ass. We should send in Reed, see who wins the dick-measuring contest." Finally, he sighs. "Let's get back to the car."

* * *

DNA pins down Doe 2 as Thomas Myers, a petty thief with a record that starts at age 14. He is, as expected, uncooperative, and has to be dragged into the station kicking and screaming. Fowler is there waiting, looking for once like his day hasn't been the worst he's lived yet. "Look what the cat dragged in," he says.

"You know your lieutenant is fucking the plastic, right?" Myers grins. His left canine is loose.

"Send him to Reed," Fowler says, monumentally unimpressed. "He'll sort him out. Enjoy your stay, Tommy. This is your last field trip in a while."

It takes three officers to restrain and move Myers into the holding cells. Hank collapses onto the nearest bench once their new inmate is no longer visible.

"Frankly, I don't give a shit about your sex life," Fowler says. "So I'm not going to ask. I've seen enough weird shit in this job to drive a lesser man insane. Don't fuck up your ops and I won't write you up for inappropriate conduct." He turns to leave, then pauses. "If getting laid is all it takes to make Anderson get up past 2AM, then by all means, knock yourselves out. Good work out there tonight. Keep it up." Then, he's gone.

"I need a drink," Hank moans, pitifully.

Connor feels something prickle at his cheekbones. In the window's reflection, he's tinged blue.

**Author's Note:**

> WELL, SHIT, THE SERIES CONTINUES, AS PROMISED. I'll hopefully be back with more when I'm not sweating buckets. The response has been seriously amazing and unexpected!!! 1k notes on Success Probability's post on tumblr. What the shit!?!?!? I owe y'all my fucking life. Thank you.


End file.
